


the grieving process

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Series: something concrete [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Major Character Undeath, i'm talking about buffy but this also applies to jenny. who is not dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 23:44:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14862584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: After Buffy's death, Giles makes his way to Jenny in LA.





	the grieving process

Giles woke up not in England, but on Jenny’s couch. He knew it was Jenny’s couch because, though the night before remained foggy and unclear, he remembered the one pervasive, continuous thought amidst the haze of grief: _Jenny will know what to do._ He knew he wouldn’t have stopped anywhere until finding her, and he knew an apartment like this (well-lit, modern art prints mixed with old tapestries and relics on the walls, an expensive computer at a desk by the window) couldn’t belong to anyone but Jenny.

It was early morning, and no one was awake but him.

He’d expected Buffy’s death to plunge him into a deep haze of desperate loss, but everything felt duller, more dimmed, his thoughts murky and barely accessible. Unusual for a man like Giles, whose mind was constantly moving and working and piecing things together—he should be worried, now, about the children and whether they might feel abandoned, or perhaps about what he might have said to Jenny last night that would earn him a place on her couch and a blanket tucked carefully around him, but his mind was more or less blank.

Giles didn’t sit up or make any effort to investigate Jenny’s apartment. There seemed to be no real point to anything at this juncture; he thought he might just lie here until she told him to leave, and then he might go home and lock himself away for the rest of his life. Or perhaps he’d move to England, settle himself down—

Jenny entered. He could tell it was her just by her footsteps; years had passed, and he still hadn’t forgotten the sound of her light, careful tread. Without a word, she placed something down on the coffee table and sat down next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently pulling him up to face her.

She was older. More lined. When they’d first met, she had looked ten years younger than she did now—or perhaps it was the absence of that sweetly breezy happiness in her eyes that made her look so much older than she was. She’d been working with Angel, Giles had heard—Angel and his crew, and they’d been in a demonic dimension for a brief stint before returning back to Los Angeles.

Giles felt something, looking at her, and didn’t like it. The feeling was too close to grief for his comfort.

Still studying him with that same quiet scrutiny, Jenny picked up one of the cups of hot tea now on the coffee table, curling Giles’s hands around it. Something cracked and shattered in his chest. He wanted to look away from her.

“I kinda imagined us meeting under better circumstances,” said Jenny. Her voice was much softer than he remembered. The version of Jenny he’d held close to his heart was sarcastic and biting, awkwardly loving, never quite sure of herself—this Jenny had found her footing, somehow. Were Giles in a better place, he might have been happy seeing her so much more comfortable in her own skin. “Like, I’d breeze into Sunnydale to help with an apocalypse, and you’d be single, and I’d be all like _whoa, he’s still hot after all these years,_ and you’d be like _oh my god, I never should have let this one get away,_ and we’d make out at the end of it like one of those Hollywood movies you used to always complain all the way through. Do you remember when we went to the movies that one time, all those years ago? I think about that a lot.”

Giles stared at her and imagined being brave enough to move forward, tuck his head into the crook of her neck, and sob like a small child. He wondered if she still wore the same perfume.

“Drink,” said Jenny, and placed her hands around his on the mug. Giles thought he felt his heart break in two. He drew in a small, pained breath, eyes wet, and Jenny gave him this crooked, sad smile. “I know,” she said. “But it’s not gonna stop hurting if you pretend it’s not hurting at all. Believe me, I speak from experience.”

A memory came back to Giles, one that he’d brushed aside and deemed ultimately unimportant. He felt suddenly ashamed, remembering the way he’d handled it. “Your uncle was killed by Angelus,” he said.

Jenny’s smile flickered and he felt her hands shake. All she said was, “Yeah.”

Giles tugged the mug lightly away from Jenny and took a sip. Chamomile. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice cracked. Then, “What did I say to get you to let me stay?”

Jenny bit her lip and looked down. “Nothing,” she said finally. “You just—came in and you were crying, and I held you, and—I said you should sleep on the couch. So you did. And then Angel called me five minutes later and told me Buffy was dead.”

It wasn’t the first time that Giles had been reminded of the fact that Jenny had been in love with him when she’d left Sunnydale. For the very first time, however, he considered the possibility that that love might have had staying powers. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Three years too late, I know, but—”

“You never needed to apologize to me,” said Jenny, and leaned forward to kiss his forehead very lightly. Giles hadn’t been touched tenderly in three years. “I’m going to go make some calls,” she said. “You finish that tea, Rupert, or I _will_ go all Scary Technopagan on your ass,” and she hugged him around the neck a little awkwardly before she pulled herself up and crossed the room to pick up the phone.

Giles, shaking, fell back into the sofa cushions, watching Jenny dial the numbers. She’d let her hair grow out, and it fell in graceful waves almost past her waist. He’d only ever known her with short hair, but then she’d only ever known him as a Watcher to Buffy—

Buffy was dead.

Buffy was dead.

His Buffy was dead.

He wasn’t even aware that he was crying until he realized that Jenny was holding him very tightly. She was still so much smaller than him, and yet she was sturdier, more stable, than he had ever been able to make himself. She buried her face in his hair. He couldn’t hear what she was whispering, but the cadence of her voice was comfort enough.

She smelled of coffee grounds and lavender oil. He couldn’t breathe, he’d missed her so much.

“It’s okay,” Jenny whispered, and he was fairly certain that she was crying too. “I’m so sorry. It’s okay, Rupert.” He raised his head to hers, and she gently removed his glasses, cupping his face in her hands. He wanted to live entirely in this moment, where someone wanted to comfort him and hold him close. He wanted to never leave this apartment.

Jenny rested her forehead against his, then let her head fall to his shoulder. Giles let himself fall back into the couch, focusing on the solidity of Jenny, absently, shakily running a hand through her hair. “I had nightmares about this moment for years,” he said, quiet and shaky. “Ridiculous, really, that it is so blindsiding to me now—I always knew it was coming.”

“I don’t think you did,” said Jenny. “Or—I don’t think you let yourself dwell on the possibility long enough to become comfortable with it. I don’t think you wanted to become comfortable with the thought of her death, and—I honestly never wanted to either.”

“She’s so extraordinarily strong and capable,” said Giles. Belatedly, he added, “She _was,_ ” and felt a lump in his throat again.

Jenny reached up and lightly wiped a tear from Giles’s face, letting her hand linger. “Past tense is a little bitch,” she said, which startled Giles into laughing—only once, and it was a clipped, painful laugh at best, but it was still a moment of lightness and levity that made him ever more certain coming to her hadn’t been a mistake. “You can stay here as long as you need to, Rupert,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Giles quietly. “I-I know you made the decision to keep your distance—”

Jenny smiled a little sadly. “Yeah,” she said. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.”

* * *

They went out for breakfast at a small diner near Jenny’s apartment. Jenny ordered Giles a large plate of bacon, eggs, and a truly horrible, truly American approximation of an English muffin, and gave him a disapproving glare when he said he wasn’t that hungry. He started in on the eggs.

“Do you want to talk or do you want me to talk?” she asked.

Giles, who was beginning to realize that he _was_ in fact incredibly hungry (he hadn’t eaten properly since Buffy’s death, unless one counted a drinking binge the night of and a few bites of toast two mornings after), managed a vague sound through the eggs and focused in on buttering the English muffin.

“Okay.” There was a smile in Jenny’s voice, one of the comforting ha-ha-I-was-right-about-you-needing-to-eat sort of smiles. “Um, we brought a girl back from Pylea. Fred. She’s camping out in the penthouse. Also, I’m like eighty percent sure she’s in love with me a little bit? Something about me being her Princess Charming who saved her from the monsters. Think she’s dealing with a whole _boatload_ of trauma, but hey, that really is my type of person.” As if to punctuate her statement, she gently squeezed Giles’s hand. “Though I’m not exactly in the dating arena at the moment.”

“Oh?” said Giles, taking a bite of the English muffin. He supposed it wasn’t the _worst_ English muffin he’d ever tasted.

“Yeah,” said Jenny. “Dating’s way too exhausting when you’re trying to balance it with weird supernatural stuff. I tried to hook up with this hot lawyer and—” She sighed. “Angel’s still mad at me about that one,” she said. “ _Oh, Jenny, you should have known she was out to get me! Oh, Jenny, it’s irresponsible to just jump someone’s bones without thinking of the consequences!_ Like, first of all, uh, look who’s talking? And _second,_ the fact that I slept with Lilah turned out to be an _advantage,_ because now she’s not out to _kill me all the time._ ”

Giles looked up from his food and reached across the table, taking Jenny’s hand. She looked surprised at first, then smiled. “Hi,” she said. “How’s that food going?”

“Better,” said Giles.

“You haven’t been eating all that much recently, have you?”

“Not as much as I should, I suppose,” Giles answered.

Jenny nodded as though she’d been expecting this, then said, “When we get back to my place, I’m gonna call Angel and tell him I’ll be out sick for a little bit. I think he’s still processing—you know.”

Giles nodded. “Yes,” he said in a stilted tone of voice.

Jenny smiled, and kept smiling, but it was the small, sad quiver at the corner of her mouth that comforted Giles much more than her determinedly upbeat demeanor. “Do you wanna talk about anything?” she asked.

Giles honestly couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked him that. “I miss feeling as though I had a purpose,” he said quietly. “Even before—this—I never felt quite sure—”

“You don’t always need a grand purpose, Rupert,” said Jenny. “You don’t need to be fighting the good fight twenty-four-seven, and you definitely don’t need—”

“Buffy,” said Giles. “I was never quite sure how much she needed me.”

Jenny blinked, then laughed, a short, almost stunned sound. “You’re kidding,” she said. When Giles’s face didn’t change, she squeezed his hand and said, “Rupert, that girl looked at you like you hung the moon. Don’t you remember the way she’d smile when she flipped you onto your back or knocked you into a table and you told her that you saw marked improvement? She’s _always_ looked up to you.”

“Always _did,_ ” said Giles. “She always _did._ She’s dead.”

Jenny’s smile faded and she swallowed hard. “I keep forgetting,” she said.

“I wish to god I had that luxury,” said Giles almost sharply, and instantly regretted his tone when he saw the way Jenny looked down and away. “I just mean—”

“No, I know,” said Jenny, eyes on the table. “I just—I wish I had been around long enough to grieve her the way you do right now, you know? I wish I hadn’t left.” She looked up. “Do you ever wonder,” she said, “where we’d be if I’d stayed like I wanted to?”

“Married,” said Giles, and gave her a small, tired smile. “Quite desperately in love. That or we might have killed each other arguing over whose turn it was to do the dishes. Perhaps both.”

Jenny bit her lip and smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she said.

“Buffy forgave you, you know,” said Giles suddenly. He didn’t know what he’d expected, telling Jenny this, but he certainly didn’t expect her face to crumple as she jerked her hand away, burying her face in her hands and beginning to cry. “Oh, lord, _Jenny,_ ” he whispered, and forgot, momentarily, about his own grief, suddenly too focused on her to remember anything else. He moved from his side of the booth over to hers, pulling her into his arms as she sobbed into his chest. “It’s all right,” he whispered. His voice caught and broke.

“I wanted to get to know her!” Jenny sobbed. “I wanted to—you loved her so much, I wanted to know—she was such a good kid, Rupert, I thought there would be _time_ to, to—”

“I know,” said Giles, near tears as well.

Jenny moved as close as she possibly could, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. “I didn’t think—” She sounded small, unsure, so unlike the woman who had placed a cup of tea in his hands only hours before. “I don’t know why it hurts this much,” she whispered. “I thought all I needed to be here for was helping you.”

“You are one of the most fiercely loving people I have known,” said Giles softly. “It makes sense that you’d be significantly affected by Buffy’s death—” He couldn’t say those two words without falling to pieces. He’d been able to manage keeping his grief in check with the children, but being with someone who had seen him fall apart made it so much easier, so much less undignified, to start crying again.

Jenny raised her head to look at him. “You really should eat,” she said, and Giles laughed ruefully in a way that was still somewhat a sob. Jenny studied him for another moment, then reached gracefully across the table and pulled Giles’s plate over towards the both of them, nearly knocking over her own coffee in the process. “Here.”

“Have some,” said Giles.

“No, I’m not—” Jenny stopped, then pressed her lips together, smiling reluctantly. “Hungry,” she finished. “Yeah, I see your point.” Still tucked into Giles’s side, she snagged a forkful of scrambled eggs.

“Have the _muffin,_ ” said Giles. “I don’t like it.”

“How incredibly generous of you,” said Jenny, picking up the buttered muffin and taking a large bite.

* * *

They slept in the same bed that night. It wasn’t the breathlessly romantic sort of sleeping together that Giles had always secretly imagined when he pictured a reunion with Jenny, but then all of Giles’s imaginings regarding reuniting with Jenny had taken place back while Buffy was alive. He would show up in Los Angeles, or she in Sunnydale, and someone would stumble through an awkward yet ardent declaration of feelings, and someone would sweep someone else into a passionate kiss, and they would sleep together and wake up in the sunlight and live happily ever after.

This was, in a strange way, and even tangled up with pain and grief, something better than Giles had imagined. Giles sat down on Jenny’s bed, and Jenny changed into a t-shirt and shorts (“you’ve seen me naked,” she pointed out, “and now doesn’t seem like the time to get all hung up on modesty”), and she sat down next to him, leaning on his shoulder. They read old magazines, watched some bad television on the black-and-white TV in Jenny’s bedroom, and Jenny fell asleep on his shoulder at around four in the afternoon. Giles followed suit soon after.

Perhaps neither of them had realized how utterly exhausted they both were, because when Giles woke up again, it was nine in the morning the next day, and he was lying on top of the bedcovers with Jenny Calendar’s head on his chest. She still did snore a bit.

“Jenny,” he said softly. “Jenny, it’s—it’s light out.”

Jenny snorted, then blinked up at him. For a very brief moment, there was a simple, happy light in her eyes, and then it faded to the same quiet grief that still hung over them both. “It is, isn’t it?” she said, and made no attempt to move.

“Should you call Angel?”

“I told him I’d be out for an indefinite amount of time,” she said. “I think he got the gist of it when I mentioned you were staying with me.”

“All right,” said Giles, and a less conscious part of him was comforted by the knowledge that Jenny, at least, wouldn’t be leaving him any time soon. He reached over to where her hand rested on his chest, interlacing her fingers with his.

“Are the kids okay with you being gone?” Jenny asked carefully.

“I don’t know,” said Giles. “I—don’t know if—right now, if I’m someone who will be of help to them. I don’t know how to work through—” He swallowed, then said, “I don’t think I’m quite able to support anyone at a time when I’m barely able to support myself.”

“Yeah, that checks out,” said Jenny, and moved a little closer. “I did mean what I said, you know.”

“About?”

“You staying here as long as—” Jenny hesitated, then said carefully, “—as long as we need each other.”

Giles smiled faintly and squeezed her hand. “I might need you for a long time coming,” he said.

“Okay,” said Jenny. “That’s okay. That’s workable, ‘cause, you know, I kinda missed you all these years.”

“I missed you too,” said Giles, and meant it. He wasn’t entirely talking about the romantic aspect of their relationship—though that certainly was something that had been incredibly painful to lose—but their friendship, which had never really been given enough time to blossom. They’d jumped headlong into a love affair without hesitation and without exploring the connection they were inadvertently creating underneath it. He liked what they were right now, even if it was nebulous and strange. It felt, oddly, much more concrete.

“Do you wanna do something?” Jenny asked, but the sleepy note to her voice made it clear that the offer was more for his sake than her own.

“I’d like to stay here a while longer,” Giles answered. “I-I think I’m beginning to enjoy staying still.”

* * *

Giles’s grief seemed to still manifest itself as an endless lethargy, but it became something less painful and isolating when Jenny was lying across from him, tracing his jawline with a fingertip and talking softly about an article she’d read or a call she’d gotten from Cordelia or that new movie that was coming out in a few months’ time. She was grieving too—Buffy had touched all of their lives in an incredibly significant way—but she was incredibly aware of the impact Buffy’s death had had on Giles, and something about that was—so, so comforting. Giles had never felt so taken care of.

“I wanna go down and get pizza bagels,” Jenny was saying today, sitting on the bed and braiding her hair into a long, sloppy French braid. “But I can’t go out of the house looking like this, because I just _know_ I’ll run into an ex or someone super influential or something. That’s just the way the goddamn world works.”

“You look lovely,” said Giles, who was paging absently through a trashy magazine Jenny had gotten him from the grocery store.

“You’re not even _looking!”_ There was a laugh in Jenny’s voice as she moved up the bed to peer over his shoulder. “What’s the hot gossip today?”

Today Jenny smelled faintly of citrus, and her braid brushed against Giles’s cheek and made his heartbeat pick up. “The blonde one is getting a divorce,” he said vaguely, frowning at the picture of a well-dressed young woman smiling faintly at the camera. “And there’s a brunette who’s having a baby?”

“You should write these,” said Jenny, leaning on him to flip through the magazine. “I’d pay good money to hear you talk about celebrity events. _Extra, extra, that redhead I don’t know went to some party I wasn’t invited to!_ ”

“No one says _extra, extra_ these days, Jenny—I’m _ancient_ and even I know that.”

“Not that old, though,” said Jenny, and there was a playfully flirtatious tilt to her smile.

Giles felt his stomach twist painfully and he jerked back from her, the magazine flying up and over and landing on the floor. Jenny’s smile vanished and she looked immediately worried—and, if Giles wasn’t mistaken, a little ashamed. “I don’t,” he began, and didn’t know how to voice his sudden, strange anguish.

“I’m so sorry,” said Jenny, looking away from him in a way that made Giles feel, if possible, even worse. “I didn’t mean—I was just joking, I—”

“It—isn’t—that,” said Giles, and found it difficult to look at Jenny as his thought process became less murky. “I—I shouldn’t be happy right now. And, and you _make_ me happy—”

“Wait, what do you mean, you shouldn’t be happy?” Jenny now looked only worried as she moved towards him again, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

It took all of Giles’s concentrated effort not to move away from her touch. He hesitated, then said, “Buffy is dead. I don’t deserve—it is a disservice to her memory if I—her mother is gone with her, there’s no one who can—grieve her, the way a parent should. She cared for me very deeply, and if I just—forget her—” Bloody buggering fuck, he was crying again. He hadn’t meant to start crying again, but the thought of failing Buffy even in death—

“Rupert,” Jenny said, shaky and soft. “You know she wouldn’t want you to be unhappy. You know how much she loved you—and you _know_ grieving isn’t just pain and pain and pain. That’s not the way these things work.”

“I don’t want to forget her,” said Giles, feeling childish and much too vulnerable—but then this Jenny, years older, years wiser, made him feel safe in a way he hadn’t experienced before. “I don’t—I don’t want to be happy if it means I’ll forget—what it feels like to mourn her. I can’t—”

“Shh.”

“I don’t want—”

“You can’t live out the rest of your life hurting.”

“I _want_ to hurt,” said Giles—he sobbed it, really, but it sounded so much more dignified to say that he was speaking. Jenny was looking at him with tears in her eyes, and it made him feel vindictively better and then, abruptly, worse. “I don’t—”

“I don’t want you to hurt,” said Jenny, and the small, fragile note in her voice made Giles stop and really look at her. “I don’t want—I feel so goddamn _useless,_ looking at you hurting and just knowing there isn’t a single thing I can do to, to make it better—”

“Jenny,” said Giles. He really was crying now, ungracefully. “My Jenny.”

Jenny wound her arms around his neck and hugged him very tightly, and Giles buried his face in her hair. They stayed like that for nearly thirty minutes, Jenny shaking, Giles, for once, not bothering to rein in his emotions and bottle them up, and then Jenny raised her head and Giles realized that he would very much like to kiss her.

Instead, he said, “I don’t—if I let myself stop hurting, then—then she really is dead.”

Jenny sniffled. “Denial isn’t a good stage to stay in,” she said. “I know how much you love her—”

“Loved,” said Giles.

“Love, I’ve found,” said Jenny, tracing his jaw with a fingertip, “is often more present-tense than a lot of people realize.”

* * *

Giles considered visiting the grave, and couldn’t quite manage it just yet. He visited the library with Jenny, though, browsing through the stacks with her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, absently flipping through books on self-help and grieving at her suggestion. Most consistent in his reading were the five stages of grief, which baffled him: how could he find himself angry at Buffy’s death? Or at the universe for taking Buffy? He’d known from the moment he’d met her that he would most likely outlive her, but—he supposed denial was the stage he’d stayed in for the entirety of their relationship, long enough to eclipse any other stage he might have passed through.

“I don’t know,” said Jenny as they left the library, one of Giles’s newly-knitted scarves twined around her waist (he felt a strange, nervous rush every time he looked at it). “Anger always shows up when you’re not really expecting it. Could be that it’s gonna manifest itself in a way you haven’t predicted.”

“I am too old and too tired to be angry,” said Giles quietly.

“I don’t think that’s the case,” said Jenny. “Plus, you’re not exactly an expert on your own emotions. If these last few months have taught us anything, it’s definitely that.”

 _Months,_ Giles thought, and realized how accustomed he’d become to Jenny’s company. “Jenny,” he said, “who takes care of you?”

Jenny gave Giles this funny little sideways smile. “For a smart guy, it seems to be taking you a surprisingly long time to figure out exactly what I get out of our relationship,” was all she said, and let go of his hand to buy a pretzel from a nearby stand.

Giles waited under the awning, watching her order. She held herself differently than she had when they’d first seen each other all those months ago, when what he’d first noticed was how much older and sadder she looked. The easy happiness that he remembered from years ago was slowly beginning to return, blossoming into something visible and beautiful that made his breath catch in his chest.

He was, at least, a smart enough man to know that any romantic relationship with Jenny was out of the question until he had fully come to terms with Buffy’s death. He couldn’t possibly put her through another disaster run of their relationship—if they were to resume it, he wanted it to last this time around, because—

The realization struck Giles right as Jenny turned around, and he had to struggle to keep his expression neutral. “It’s a sweet pretzel,” she said, and tore off a piece, popping one into Giles’s mouth before he could object. “Swallow, don’t spit,” she said, then winked.

Giles rolled his eyes a little, smiling, and obliged. The pretzel was horribly artificial, and it tasted as though Jenny had asked for every topping known to mankind. “A bit too sweet for my taste,” he said, “and personally, I’m of the mind that you could do without the sugar rush.”

“Good thing no one asked you,” said Jenny, and took a large and messy bite of the pretzel herself.

 _I’m falling in love with her,_ Giles thought again, gently brushing Jenny’s hair out of the way of the pretzel. She made a face at him, batting his hands away, and he grinned a bit.

* * *

Falling in love with Jenny wasn’t quite as it had been three years ago. It wasn’t dizzy rushes and subterfuge and attempting to act like a human person long enough to impress her into caring for him. It was—simpler, and more real, getting to know her without the awkwardness of a new romance. It was frightening in its honesty, and it was something Giles hadn’t ever expected to find, and it was something he had no intention of telling Jenny about until he was _certain_ he was someone good enough for her. And being a good enough man for Jenny meant that Giles had to stop thinking about his life in terms of duty and destiny and start thinking about things that he _wanted,_ which, for a Watcher told by everyone around him that chasing desires ended only in disaster, was incredibly terrifying.

“Check-fucking-mate!” Jenny crowed, and nearly fell off the couch in her delight. “You know what this means?”

“That you’re going to be needlessly cocky for the rest of the month?” said Giles sourly.

“Oh, ha ha,” said Jenny, who was grinning ear to ear. “No, it means that _you_ are losing your touch, Mr. Giles, because we all know that I absolutely suck at chess.”

“Maybe I let you win,” Giles retorted. He hadn’t.

“You didn’t,” said Jenny. “You know I’d kill you if you let me win. No, this was me winning fair and square, and I am just _too_ talented—” The phone rang. “This isn’t over,” Jenny informed him, pulling herself up from the couch to cross the room and pick up the phone. “Hello?”

Giles waited.

Something in Jenny’s expression shifted and changed as she listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. A good ten seconds passed before she turned her eyes to Giles, a strange, almost pained look in her eyes. “It’s for you,” she said, her voice no longer light and happy, and she held out the phone.

Giles, frowning, got up and took the phone from Jenny. “Hello?”

 _“Buffy’s back!”_ Willow sounded positively giddy. _“Buffy’s—we brought her back, she’s back! For real, Giles, I really truly was able to pull this off! I can put her on if you want—”_

Funny, but in this moment, Giles wasn’t thinking of Buffy—he was thinking of the night before, when Jenny had fallen asleep on top of the covers and taken up most of the bed. He felt like something had been stolen from him. Willow couldn’t possibly have brought Buffy back, and getting his hopes up _now,_ when he was trying so hard to make himself a better person, someone who might be of help to the people around him (to _Jenny)_ —

“I’m sorry?” Giles said stiffly.

 _“Please, Giles, just come on back!”_ said Willow, still with that strange self-confident cadence to her voice. _“C’mon—Buffy really misses you, I can tell.”_

Giles nodded distantly to himself. “I suppose I’ll have to, then,” he said, and hung up without waiting to hear Willow’s response. He took a shaky breath in, then turned to face Jenny.

And all he was thinking about, now, was the fact that he’d begun to want a life with her, learning to heal and grow. He liked lying close to her in the mornings and hearing her talk in a soft voice about what she wanted to do that day. He liked the clumsy, horrible way she’d make breakfast on the rare occasion he didn’t cook for them.

Not liked— _loved._ And now he would be a Watcher again, and he _hated_ that he had been too fucking self-absorbed to appreciate the gift he had been so briefly given.

“Willow says Buffy’s alive,” he said.

“I know,” said Jenny. She wasn’t smiling. “Are you going to leave?”

“I think so,” said Giles, and he knew that he couldn’t ask her to come with him.

Jenny nodded, and nodded, and turned on her heel, leaving the living room. Giles heard her retreating footsteps, then the sound of the bedroom door shutting quietly and deliberately. He leaned against the wall and tried to figure out how in God’s name he could return to a place where he’d been nothing but inept and incompetent right after he had thought he was finally learning how to be happy.

* * *

He didn’t say goodbye to Jenny, in the end. It was much too painful to imagine saying goodbye again, especially now when he was so deeply in love with her. He left a note on the refrigerator in the early morning and took a taxi down to LAX, suitcase in hand.

The flight to Los Angeles had been in a haze of pain and grief, and it was strange to be in the airport and be able to actually take his surroundings in. Giles bought himself a soft pretzel with all the toppings and ate it quietly at the terminal, thinking about all the damn near-misses. He should have just told her. He should have learned from Buffy’s death—there was _never_ enough time in the world for all the things you wanted to do.

It was when he was halfway through the pretzel that he remembered Jenny’s expression upon hearing the news of Buffy’s death, and upon hearing that he would be leaving, and realized that it was the same heavy, sad expression she’d worn when he’d first seen her.

_For a smart guy, it seems to be taking you a surprisingly long time to figure out exactly what I get out of our relationship._

“Oh,” said Giles, and thought he might shatter into horrible, small pieces all over the terminal floor. Angel had only called a handful of times to check in on Jenny, and that was only during the first two weeks or so; the calls had mostly dropped off after that. And Jenny hadn’t gone out with anyone but him, or spent any time with anyone outside him—he’d thought it was because she was trying to help him. He’d never once realized that she was just as lonely as him.

And he was leaving her. He was leaving her to be lonely in Los Angeles, just like she’d left him three years ago. If Giles were a different man, he might have felt smug about the situation, that Jenny was getting her just desserts for hurting him so deeply. But all he kept on thinking about was five years of loss and loneliness on both ends, and the way it had felt to wake up in her arms every morning.

If Giles really had become a better man, he would have been brave enough to call Jenny and tell her he wanted her with him. But Giles was simply Giles, and so he boarded the plane and watched the in-flight movie with vague detachment until his plane landed.

It was afternoon when he reached Sunnydale. No one was waiting for him at the airport, and his heart was still solidly back in Los Angeles. Giles swallowed hard, already missing Jenny, and headed to baggage claim.

* * *

The strangest and most painful thing about returning to Sunnydale was the fact that nothing had changed in Giles’s absence. The streets were the same, the shops were the same—and it was true that he hadn’t been gone too long in the grand scheme of things, but it made his time with Jenny feel like a distant, half-faded dream instead of something real and wonderful. Giles thought he might be happier about returning to Sunnydale if he honestly believed that Buffy was alive, but if Buffy was alive, Willow would need some serious magical help.

And that was another thing: Giles knew he couldn’t leave now that he’d come back. Perhaps he’d thrown himself into the deep end too soon, but even if Buffy wasn’t really back, there were people here who needed him far more than he needed Jenny. He would have to stay, and he knew that, and—possibly worst of all—Jenny had known it too.

Giles paused at the door, not daring to let himself hope, and opened it.

The Magic Box was a bustle of activity. Anya and Xander were in some sort of fierce argument regarding either research methodology or relationship problems, and Dawn and Willow were both taking a snack break while Tara absently played with Willow’s hair, and Buffy—

—and Buffy—

Giles felt his luggage slip from his hand, but he didn’t hear the _thud_ of it landing. It must have made some sort of a noise, because Buffy turned and looked at him with such a tired, fragile expression. His Buffy. His girl. Alive.

He wasn’t breathing. Was he breathing?

Buffy crossed the room in two Slayer steps until she was facing him, looking nervously up at him as though expecting him to reprimand her for dying or scold her for keeping them all waiting.

“Buffy,” said Giles, his voice shaking. “You’re alive,” and pulled her into a fierce hug. He felt Buffy stumble, then hug him back with the brunt of her Slayer strength, and—truly, he couldn’t care less. Bruises healed. Buffy was _alive._ Alive, and unbroken, and whole.

He pulled back, cupping her face in one hand. “You’re here,” he said. His voice caught. “I was rather certain you wouldn’t be.”

“That’s me,” said Buffy, quieter than he remembered her but smiling softly. “Still taking you off guard.”

Giles lightly kissed Buffy’s forehead. Buffy’s eyes widened, her smile trembling like she didn’t know how to handle being quite so happy, quite so loved. “And aren’t we all glad for that,” he said gruffly, finally pulling away—or trying to. Buffy kept a sturdy grip on his arm, as though she didn’t completely want to let him go. He would have to talk to Willow, he knew—take some proper action, support the children as best he could—and the realities of his renewed position of mentor made the ache of missing Jenny return with a quiet vengeance. It was muffled in this moment by the delirious joy he felt at Buffy’s un-death, but he knew it would be something that would become more visible, more painful.

There was nothing he could do about it now, though. Resigning himself to this, he said, “Buffy, if you don’t mind, I need to briefly speak with Willow.”

“Oh,” said Buffy, and didn’t let go of his hand. “Then—oh,” and let her hand drop from his shakily. It seemed to take her concentrated effort to not reach out to him again.

“I’ll be right back,” said Giles, letting his voice soften into a way he’d never dared speak to Buffy before— _never too paternal,_ he’d always told himself, _never too familial, you don’t want to embarrass yourself,_ but the hungry, desperate look in Buffy’s eyes reminded him of the way his own grief had manifested itself—and if his time with Jenny had taught him anything, it was that his feelings were of more value than the strange code of honor he’d constructed from the Council’s teachings and his own fears. “I love you, you know,” he added.

Buffy’s face almost crumpled and she had to press her hands to her mouth. Her eyes were shining with a stunned, wordless sort of love.

Giles turned to Willow, who was beaming beatifically as though completely unaware of what she had done, what she was capable of. Perhaps she truly was. He hoped that was the case. “Willow, if we could adjourn to the training room?” he asked crisply, and her smile flickered a little at his more serious tone of voice.

“Oh, okay,” said Willow, then, with a nervous look at Buffy, “You’re sure you don’t wanna—”

“Now, please,” said Giles.

Willow seemed to sense his less-than-lighthearted demeanor, because she didn’t put up any further objections. Directing a small, uncertain smile to the rest of the group, she headed into the training room with Giles close behind. He shut the door behind them, and she turned to him, her smile still hesitant. She didn’t seem to understand why he was upset. “Giles,” she began, “is everything okay? I thought—you know—I thought this kind of news would make you happy.”

If he had come back from loneliness and bottled-up grief, Giles might have lashed out at her with fury and fear. But all he could think about right now was the way he and Jenny had held each other in that diner, and the fact that Willow might not have had someone to hold her in that same way—or even let anyone close enough to try. “Willow, these are magics that cannot be taken lightly,” he said.

“And I didn’t!” Willow’s smile was returning, now, with a relieved note to it; it was clear that she thought Giles was missing some crucial part of the puzzle, that if she explained things just right, he’d be happy again. Lord, but Giles had failed these children.

 _Now’s not the time for a pity party, Rupert,_ said a voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Jenny. _Fix what you can, while you can._

“I know quite intimately anyone how much Buffy’s death affected us,” said Giles, choosing his words carefully.

“Oh, you did, did you?” Willow’s voice was still purposefully light, but there was a sharp glint in her eyes as she continued to smile. “’Cause the way I look at it, you up and left only a week after she died and we had to get your phone number from Angel. If there’s someone in this room who knows how everyone was feeling after Buffy’s death, Giles, I don’t think it’s you.”

Something frightened Giles, looking at her. Something he recognized.

“I don’t know why you’re not happy, Giles,” said Willow, sweet and earnest, an old and terrifying magic in her eyes. “Don’t you see what I’ve done?”

“I see it, all right,” said Giles, looking directly into her eyes and trying to remember—when had he even stopped to consider what Willow was capable of? When did her potential become a threat and not something that filled his chest with pride, looking at her? “Willow—did you stop to consider the risks?”

“Worth taking,” said Willow without hesitation. “Buffy could have been trapped in some hell dimension—”

“Was she?”

This question made Willow fumble, and something about that made worry tighten in Giles’s chest. “She thanked me,” she said. “For bringing her back—she thanked me, Giles. It’s been a little hard for her to adjust, but she’s going to be back to normal soon—”

“Bringing Buffy back was not your choice to make,” said Giles quietly. “These are forces that should not be bent and broken to one’s will—”

“If they _can,_ ” said Willow, a determined jut to her chin, “then there’s really no point in debating the _shoulds_ and _shouldn’ts_ of the matter, is there? The world needed Buffy back, so I brought her back. End of story.”

“Willow—”

“And what did you come back for, anyway, if all you wanna do is tell me how you think Buffy should have stayed dead?” Willow’s voice was reaching higher, angrier levels. “Don’t you know all the good I’m doing, Giles? All the good I’ve done for this town by bringing her back, and you’re looking at me like I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life—”

“You can’t play God, Willow,” said Giles sharply. “And don’t you _ever_ put words in my mouth like that again. I would have sooner died myself than lost Buffy—”

“I wouldn’t have brought _you_ back, you know,” snapped Willow. “The world doesn’t need someone with old ideas.”

Giles looked up at her, slowly, expectantly, and waited. It took Willow a moment, but an immediate, horrified expression spread across her face as she realized what she just said. “Giles,” she said, plaintive. “Giles, I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” said Giles. “And sooner or later, you’re going to have to come to terms with the side of yourself that you’re justifying. God knows I was the same way, but—I only hope the road you’re going down won’t have a body count. There isn’t any way to come back from that.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m—like I’m like _you!”_ Willow sounded near tears. “Like I’m off getting high and summoning demons in my twenties!”

Giles looked at her for another moment, and then very deliberately turned away.

“Giles, you know I’m not—I’m _not_ making mistakes, don’t tell me—I know what I’m doing!” There was a desperation in Willow’s tone, as though some small part of her knew the emptiness of her words. “Giles—look at me, Giles, _please_ —”

“You have a good heart, Willow, underneath it all,” said Giles, eyes on the door of the training room. “I know that. But these rituals exact a high price—”

“I _know_ what I’m doing!”

Giles did turn back to look at Willow, then. “If you knew what you were doing,” he said, “ _really_ knew, you would have made at least some effort to accept that there are some things in life that magic cannot fix.”

“Then what’s magic _for?_ ” Willow demanded fiercely. “If we’re not gonna use it to help our friends and save the world from demon biker gangs—”

“I think you should look into a few friends of mine in Devon,” said Giles. “They’re people who understand magic wholly and completely, and they’ll be able to—not guide you, as I know you don’t need guidance, but _illuminate_ the sides of magic I feel you haven’t explored just yet. Teach you how to use it the way you want to use it.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. The coven in Devon was especially skilled in white magic, and did take on talented students who were prepared to learn magic as a form of connection and nature instead of a tool. They wouldn’t take on Willow as a student in that sense, Giles knew, but they were also especially well-versed in gently rehabilitating those who had strayed from the path. He might have done well in a coven like that, if anyone had thought to direct him towards one in his misspent youth.

“I don’t need to learn anything,” said Willow, but there was a petulant note to her voice that made it clear these were her last-ditch objections.

“I know,” said Giles wryly, because he really, truly did. At her age—he had been so convinced he’d known all he needed to know. “And if it helps—I am very, very proud of you.”

This wasn’t entirely a lie, either, more of a complicated untruth. But it was what she needed to hear in this moment, and it might lead her towards the coven in Devon, and so he said it. His stomach twisted when he saw Willow’s smile; she looked so sweetly innocent, almost childish. One would never have guessed this girl to have raised the dead and bent the forces of darkness to her will.

 _The road she’s going down won’t have a body count,_ he told himself. _I’ll see to that._

* * *

Buffy kept on looking at Giles with soft, wide eyes as he drove her home, and it was an odd feeling to look back at her unhidden affection and not feel afraid. He’d lost her before, now, and he knew he would lose her again someday. He couldn’t cling to the illusion of permanence for comfort, or tell himself that later there might be a time when he could love her as he might a daughter—only the present was a constant in his life. He knew that now.

“I love you too,” said Buffy, in a small, croaky voice. Then, “Am I gonna have to die again for you to give me another hug?”

“No,” said Giles, and reached over, taking her hand in his. Buffy’s mouth trembled and she held his hand very tightly. “Do you want to talk,” he asked, “or do you want me to talk?”

Buffy just looked up at him.

“All right,” said Giles. “Well. I’m in love with Jenny again.”

Buffy sniffled, then laughed.

“What?”

“You just dropped a bombshell in the _most_ blasé way,” said Buffy, giggling and letting go of Giles’s hand to wipe her eyes. “ _Oh, hey, nice to see you, by the way, I’m in love with Jenny again._ ”

“ _You_ came back from the dead and I got a phone call about it,” Giles countered.

Buffy laughed again. _God,_ Giles had missed her. “Touché,” she said. “So is that where you were when I came back? Knocking boots with your honey?”

“Oh, we weren’t—she doesn’t know I’m in love with her,” Giles elaborated awkwardly. “I was staying with her these last few months after—”

“After I died?”

“Yes.” Giles still didn’t like using that phrase so casually, not when this time had seemed so permanent. “She was—incredibly kind to me. Fiercely compassionate.”

“Did you tell her I’m not mad at her anymore?” Buffy furrowed her brow. “Or it would have been _wasn’t,_ back then—you’re a librarian, how do we describe the fact that everyone was using past tense for me up until recently?”

“You defy grammatical guidelines, my dear,” said Giles affectionately. Buffy gave him a tired smile and unbuckled her seatbelt, moving over to rest her head on his shoulder as he drove. “Wholly unsafe,” he said.

“Whatever,” said Buffy. “I missed you a bunch. I get to break a few rules when my Watcher’s not immediately accessible for two whole awful weeks.”

“I still made excellent timing on short notice.”

“What _ever._ ” Buffy snuggled closer. Giles had forgotten how very small she was. “I want hot chocolate when we get home.”

“All right.”

“And I want to take a nap all day without having to worry about repair funds and electricity bills.”

Giles frowned. “Joyce left you two enough money to last you till Dawn’s eighteenth birthday, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, well,” Buffy shrugged, “Willow and Tara were working the finances, I think, and now there isn’t as much money as there used to be.”

“Ah,” said Giles darkly.

There was a heavy silence, and then Buffy said, “You know I heard some of what you guys were talking about, right? You two got kinda loud.”

“Did you hear me say that I’d sooner have died than lost you?” said Giles quietly. “I would never have wanted you to stay dead.”

Buffy blinked, then sniffled, then lightly punched Giles’s shoulder. “You’re gonna make me start crying again,” she said. “Good crying, but _still_ —”

“You’ve been through an intense amount in these last two weeks, Buffy,” said Giles gently. “Crying seems more than reasonable.” He felt a lump in his throat. “For both of us, in fact,” he said a bit unsteadily, “but I’m driving, so I may have to hold off a bit longer.”

“Not gonna try and keep that stiff upper lip?” Buffy teased, scrubbing at her eyes again.

“Not anymore, no,” said Giles, and gave Buffy a sideways smile. “Seems to do more harm than it does good.”

Buffy smiled a little too. “She really did a number on you, huh?” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Ms. Calendar,” said Buffy. “Everyone else, when I came back, they just looked happy to see me, you know? It was like they’d been in stasis, just waiting for me to come back. But you—” Her smile widened. “You changed,” she said. “It kinda makes me happy. Knowing there’s someone who’s not gonna fall to pieces if I’m not one hundred percent okay right now.”

“I love you,” said Giles. “I want you to have time to adjust. Your coming back is about _you,_ Buffy, not about anyone else.”

Buffy’s smile wobbled and she looked at him as though he’d said something no one had ever said before. Giles pulled the car up in front of Joyce’s house (Buffy’s house now, he realized) and turned towards the front seat, smoothing down her hair. “I’ll be there for you,” he said, and the weight of leaving Jenny wasn’t so heavy anymore. He hadn’t realized how much he had here when he was honest with himself—hadn’t realized how very, very much he loved Buffy if he was honest with himself about it.

“Like Friends?” said Buffy solemnly.

“Get out of my car,” said Giles. Buffy started laughing.

* * *

Willow packed her things for the coven in Devon. Tara helped. There was a quietly purposeful look in Tara’s eyes that made Giles suspect he wasn’t the only one who had been worried about Willow’s magic use, which strengthened his respect for Tara. She’d been holding the fort, it seemed, keeping an eye on Dawn and making pancakes. Willow had been the one managing the finances.

“Ridiculous,” he said, looking at the unpaid bills. Buffy was hovering anxiously at the door, watching him as though not quite sure what her place in this house was. “Absolutely ridiculous. Buffy, you’ll of course be going back to college—”

“What, with my nonexistent money?” Buffy scoffed.

“No,” said Giles, looking up at her, “with my own fully existing money. You should hear the sorts of speeches Jenny was giving me a few weeks ago regarding the fact that I received a stipend from the Council and you didn’t— _wildly_ uncomplimentary.”

“I feel like we should all collectively write Ms. Calendar a thank-you note,” said Tara, who was giving Giles an approving smile.

Buffy looked like she was about to start crying again. “When do I start?” she asked in a small voice.

“When you want to,” said Giles. “There’s no rush. Healing is a slow and somewhat confusing process.”

“Wow, look at him talking like he’s an expert!” came a delighted, laughing voice.

Giles whirled.

Jenny’s smile was sweet and bright, but she held herself nervously, running a trembling hand through her hair before unwinding something from around her neck. “You forgot your scarf,” she said, holding it out to him.

“No, I didn’t,” said Giles slowly.

“No, you didn’t,” said Jenny, “I stole it from your bag so I’d be able to come down here and say you forgot it.”

“Seems reasonable,” said Giles, and took a step forward.

“Yeah,” said Jenny, and stepped quietly around a stunned Dawn, navigating her wheeled suitcase through the double doors of the living room.

“Are you here for a visit?” Giles asked, moving past the coffee table.

“No, I’m here for good,” said Jenny, stepping up to him. Even her smile was shaking now. “I sorta figured it was me who had to come to you this time around.”

“I didn’t think you’d _ever_ come,” said Giles, voice breaking, and swept her up into his arms, burying his face in her hair. He wasn’t sure which one of them had started crying first.

“I missed you,” Jenny was saying into his jacket, muffled and a bit wet. “I missed you so much, you dumbass jerk, don’t _ever_ leave me with just a stupid fucking note and a scarf.”

“I won’t,” Giles managed. “And don’t leave me with a ritual of restoration and the sweater you forgot in my car.”

“I’d say that that’s actually kind of better than what you left me with.”

“Point taken. Just don’t leave me.”

“Okay.”

Giles heard the quiet rustle that meant Buffy had shooed everyone out of the room, giving them some proper privacy, and he pulled back to look at Jenny. “So you’re staying,” he said.

“Yeah, I think I am,” said Jenny, giving him a wobbly grin.

“For as long as—”

“Always,” said Jenny.

The certainty in her voice knocked any and all thought out of him. Wordless, Giles reached to cup her face in his hand, heart pounding as she turned her cheek towards his touch with a small, contented hum. He wasn’t so oblivious that he didn’t know what _always_ meant for Jenny.

She closed her eyes and smiled, and Giles thought that if he could, he might want to stay forever in this moment. But there were moments promised to him, now, that he needed to look towards—he could no longer afford to stay still. “Shall we check in on the children, then?” he finally managed.

“Yeah, I think so,” said Jenny, but she continued to look expectantly up at him.

“Jenny?”

“You came to me, then I came to you,” said Jenny, a quiet blush spreading across her face. “I feel like this next move is yours, Rupert.”

 _Awkward yet ardent declaration,_ Giles thought to himself, _which means the passionate kiss is on me._ He leaned in.

* * *

Giles woke up on Buffy’s sofa, which wasn’t nearly as comfortable a place to wake up as Jenny’s couch—all angular pillows. Really, Joyce should have picked more furniture that would be friendly to visitors, because lying on that sofa with Jenny on top of him was absolute _hell_ on his back.

“I can, like, _feel_ you internally grouching,” Jenny said sleepily, and kissed him. Giles, who still hadn’t gotten quite used to all the intimacy and closeness a relationship provided, felt a sharp thrill in his chest and kissed her back. She laughed, rubbing her nose against his, then pulled away. “Oh, _now_ you’re cheerful?”

“I love you,” said Giles.

“Yeah, I love you too,” said Jenny.

“Goes without saying, doesn’t it?”

“You still have to say it.”

“Oh, is it my _legal_ obligation?”

“I don’t know, do I need to read the terms and conditions for our relationship?”

“You guys are disgusting,” said Buffy from the doorway. “This is my living room. Also, breakfast is in five and if you flirt like that in the kitchen, neither of you gets maple syrup.”

Giles pulled Jenny very close and grinned over at Buffy. “I’ll pass on the syrup, then,” he said, and felt a soft, warm happiness as he looked at her. Alive.

“I’m gonna kick you off the couch and you’ll have to go home,” Buffy threatened, but she was smiling slightly as she left.

“Term and condition four,” said Jenny into his ear, “if we don’t get maple syrup, I’m breaking up with you.”

“I feel like that qualifies as _flirting,_ ” Giles pointed out.

“Doubtful,” said Jenny, and kissed him again.

 _“Guys!”_ called Buffy from the kitchen, sounding thoroughly exasperated.

“Duty calls,” said Giles solemnly. “A Watcher never rests.”

“No,” said Jenny, lightly running a hand through his hair, “but he does take a few seconds to breathe, every so often.”

"I think I can manage that," said Giles.


End file.
